


Blue Steel

by LelithSugar



Category: Misfits (TV 2009)
Genre: Absent probation workers, Bonding, Comedy, Drink Spiking, Dry Humping, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Horrible Euphemisms, Humor, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Recreational Drug Use, Smut, Viagra, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, absolute waste of taxpayers' money, nathan being nathan, seriously who is in charge here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-23 00:03:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11391183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: Nathan has half a strip of black market Viagra and exceptionally poor decision making skills.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: I suppose that the consent in this could be considered dubious, but it's not intended to be. Viagra doesn't affect your decision making, it's just the lowered inhibitions of desperation and a bit of good old fashioned peer pressure. I'm hoping I've made consent evident enough that it shouldn't be too problematic for people.

 

If a probation worker ever lives long enough to write a proper assessment about Nathan Young, it will flag up a worrying deficit in consequential thinking. An inability to understand the effects and consequences of his actions for others. A total disregard for societal norms or personal responsibility.

Which is probably how he ends up beginning a day deciding to use the knock-off Viagra he acquired - purely because his purveyor of questionable recreational substances happened to have it available - not on himself, but on Simon.

It's kind of a spontaneous decision but he's paid actual, legitimate money for this, so it'd better be good. Well, not _legitimate_ exactly, but it was real money that he could easily have spent in a shop and instead for some reason he's spent it on this. On a day's fun. On enough material to crack jokes about for a week. On an adventure, of sorts, but first he has to find something to drop it into because the weird little git might be guillible but even he won't drink suspiciously proferred water with a half-dissolved pill swimming in it.

… Or maybe two. Because he might not drink it all, and it can't be that effective, can it? It's aimed at old dudes who can't get it up.

And there, like divine providence, like the very universe endorses his plan: sitting atop the pallett of new snacks and drinks for the centre's kitchens and tuck shop is a two-layered six pack of Powerade, its unspecific flavour and synchronous, perfect fucking _blue-ness_ shining as if illuminated by the heavens.

Nathan lifts his eyes to space he imagines that angel chorus of 'Hallelujah' is coming from (if it wasn't actually a metal-grated strip light) and whispers a word of thanks before tearing into the shrink wrap.

 

***

 

 

If the rest of the group were going to spend a few seconds wondering why Nathan was swanning out towards them with his arms full of bottles of powerade, they are not given time.

“BEHOLD. I HAVE PROVIDED.”

“Where the fuck have you got that?”

“And why are you giving it out?”

“Because I'm overwhelmingly kind natured and generous.” With the best will in the world, that one is not going to fly. “Well, I've worked out... I've either got to take bits and pieces from everywhere so there's not enough missing to notice, or I've got to take the whole lot so it looks like it just never arrived. Destroy the evidence, like. Only, I think if I drink twelve bottles of this it might actually destory my arsehole, so drink up.”

That reason accepted – and now he's thought of it Nathan has literally no idea why his brain didn't provide him with that one last time he was hungry enough to resort to eating ketchup – they actually all look pretty grateful for the surprise treat. It's hot, and fence scrubbing is thirsty work when you actually do some. Nathan's pleased with the sleight of hand which makes it look like it doesn't matter who takes which bottle, like he doesn't guide the right one into Simon's tentatively outstretched fingers at the last second before passing the remaining bottle to Kelly, who is no fool.

“What 'ave you put in it?”

“As if I would do that to you. Of all people. No, seriously, look at you.” She doesn't, she looks at him, bored and sardonic. “Oh come on, check the tamper seal.”

A heart stopping moment's silence, the quick headrush of a confidence trickster's zero-gravity freefall, as Kelly runs her finger around the plastic at the bottom of the lid and finds it intact. It doesn't occur to her to ask why Nathan, who often doesn't know what day of the week it is, conspicuously recalls the name and purpose of a tamper seal. Alisha gives hers a cursory glance, and neither of the guys even look.

Nathan dives in with the melodrama or it would be obvious something was amiss. He flings a hand to his forehead and swoons. “I'm wounded, honestly. Deeply hurt. I bring you sugary sustainance and all you do is question my generosity.”

“I weren't ' _questioning your generosity_ '...” The quotation marks are audible in Kelly's voice, and Simon's is so definite in its quietness -

“I think she was calling you a rapist, actually.”

If that little nutcase wasn't already about to have the most uncomfortable few hours of his melon-fucking life, Nathan would have been thinking up something else.

 

***

 

The afternoon drags on; the bottles are drained; Simon falls apart quickly and wonderfully.

It's only maybe twenty minutes before it begins with the widening of his eyes, the tense little glances from side to side and the momentary knotting of his eyebrows. A pronounced swallow. It's possible he hasn't worked out what's going on, just yet, and to be fair he does do that face a lot, but Nathan knows it can't be long before the effects kick in properly.

When it does, Simon looks a bit startled. For probably the scariest person Nathan has ever met, Simon spends a lot of time looking scared. Shortly after that, Nathan begins to be able to make out the shadow of a bulge which gets more obvious over the course of a few minutes: Simon shifts about and adjusts his jumpsuit, ending up uncharacteristically rumpled but typically wide-eyed and looking no less perplexed. It's nice to look at, somehow: the softening of his edges, the mussing of his odd rigidity makes him look almost normal.

It's not like he's never noticed Simon's cute before. He just can't ever get past the fact he reminds him of a lego man.

It's the angles if his face, the straight lines of his collar and buttons, the whole pressed, starched, too done-up neatness of him... it's infuriating. Watching him loosen up is definitely more Nathan's style, and watching the urgent clenching of Simon's jaw combined with the way his eyes darken and warm as the pupils widen into that expanse of icy blue, the way he fidgets and then squares his shoulders on a deep exhale...

Yeah, If you can get past the rest of it, Simon's a pretty little thing when he's aroused, and maybe a bit of that is why Nathan spiked him: he had a hunch that if you could just ruffle him up a little and get his guard down, he might actually make a passable human being. Good looking, even. He just hadn't bargained on suddenly and quite vividly being able to picture Simon in sexual situations without a punchline attached. It's unsettling.

And then it gets really interesting. Where Nathan kind of expected him to get more withdrawn, to scuttle off and disappear somewhere – maybe literally – he actually softens, if anything. A stripe of pink appears high on his cheeks. Every now and then his lips purse into that wry little expression he does just before you get a proper smile out of him, and he cracks a couple of slightly risque jokes... not the demented left-field sexuality of the things he says as if they're normal but soft, tentative innuendo, and then a proper grin when people actually get it.

That said, Nathan's made his peace with the fact he finds something weirdly appealing about the fact Simon's clearly a pervert. Who even knows what's going on in his head? Other than the fact it's obviously constant filth, so you've got to know you'd have the shag of your life... you'd probably end up in a bath of ice cubes missing some organs or something but Nathan's probably had less fun doing worse. He finds himself openly staring as Simon gradually comes undone.

Simon keeps trying to flatten his hair down, but the prickling of sweat has lent the ends a life of their own so it's skewed, and when he runs a hand through it in a moment of unharacterisitic, frantic abandon, chewing his bottom lip, it stays up in a fin until he composes himself and straightens it out again. When he's bringing a cardboard box out from storage, he finally has something to cover - and presumably press against - his by now _definitely_ noticeable boner and his face slackens in momentary relief as he shifts against it. He doesn't seem to be aware that he's even doing it, and Nathan is so riveted that he can't even bring himself to call out the fact the grubby little sod is humping a box of charity-donated shoes, which is frankly magical: Simon screws his eyes shut and breathes out heavily through his mouth, and in that moment he is beautiful.

And then he does go off somewhere, and the moment that's a longer interval than it takes to have a piss, the grin on Nathan's face becomes so forceful it makes his ears ache.

So, the freak's finally caved and gone off for a wank, then. In an instant, Nathan has pictured an entire compendium of the obscure and sordid things someone that odd probably has to do to get off, although unhelpfully his mind censors out some of the best parts where he's not actually sure how certain acts really work. Like, he gets the gist but he's not a pervert. Things like that are best left to the resident weirdo, who he obviously now has to go and find, because what if he catches him doing something _really_ weird?! At least then he'd know what it was.

But what he actually finds is Simon sitting on a bench in the locker room, fully dressed, looking pained and frustrated but otherwise a bit boring. But oh, he's not got shoes on, and his bag's open, and that jumpsuit has been at least adjusted if not taken off and put back on, if Nathan's any judge of people undressing, which he'd like to think he is. As in like, he isn't, but it would be nice if he was.

“Oh here you are! We thought you'd gone with that Scout camping trip. What's the matter, are you ill or something?”

He just gets a look. No defense, no objection, and that's how he knows Simon's in a real state. Normally he'd be tensing up and storming off somehwere, but he just looks hopeless.

“I've... Go away, Nathan.”

“Oh, there _is_ a problem!” Nathan steps forward, shuts the door and does his best impression of a considerate expression. It's brilliant, really, he should have been an actor. For a start, he pretends Simon's boner hasn't been absolutely obvious all day, like he can't now see it comically tenting the front of his jump suit and now he's looking, either orange is a surprisingly flattering colour – and Nathan doesn't remember feeling much looked worth admiring in his – or the kid is packing heat.

It's always the quiet ones.

“What's the matter? You can tell me.”

Simon cannot tell him, even if he'd like to. On closer inspection, he's a mess. His eyes are near-black and unfocussed, like he's barely even aware of where he is. And on the last desperate run of his hand through his hair he's pushed his fringe up rather than down, stiffened with sweat, which does something really interesting to his whole appearance. It makes him look somehow sexy and dangerous... but like, biker dangerous, not like, hiding women in a freezer dangerous, which is a definite improvement. Someone needs to slip the boy chemicals more often.

“If you can't spit it out, will you show me?”

Oh, it's just too easy.

“I feel dizzy,” Simon says as if that's a resignation and leans back against the lockers and blinks but complies, pulling the zipper on his jumpsuit down far enough for Nathan to see first his white undershirt, gone just slightly translucent with fresh sweat, and then – like a low budget, Criminal Justice System subsidised striptease – a stripe of dark hair against the shining pale skin of his stomach, then the damp boxer briefs that are doing absolutely nothing whatsoever to conceal the surprisingly substantial bulk of his erection.

All thoughts of winding him up are momentarily paused, like a needle scratching off a record.

“Fuck _me_! Where the hell have you been hiding _that_?” Nathan thought he had the measure of Simon, with clothes on, but with them off it turns out his estimated measurements are... less than accurate. And in some places less accurate than others... like, by a good couple of inches. “No wonder you feel dizzy. There cannot be enough blood in you to power that thing and your brain at the same time.” It hurts him to be simultaneously impressed and upstaged by another man. And by Simon, of all people. Simon, with the face of a juvenile serial killer and the body of Attitude Magazine's September centrefold. Not that Nathan has looked, obviously.

Simon is clearly taken aback by the appraisal: he opens and shuts his mouth a few times, as if trying to find words to defend himself from insults that he then realises aren't there: Nathan is not mocking him. And as if by way of apology for that, Nathan shrugs and finally lifts his eys back to Simon's face, albeit with some effort. “Seriously. I honestly did not see that coming.”

Simon manages a grin with half his mouth and quickly shifts his gaze to the side. Nathan has not finished questioning him.

“But I'm not really sure how that constitutes a problem. Unless you've just been waiting for an excuse to wave it at me, which to be fair I don't blame you, but you could at least have bought me dinner...”

“I've been...” Simon ignores him and swallows, audibly and visibly, “...hard, for _hours._ ”

Nathan tries his best to look susrprised and concerned. _Oh, you have an unexpected and relentless erection? Who could possibly have imagined that totally unpredictable event?_

“Well then, isn't _that_ the gift that just keeps on giving? Have you tried, I don't know, having a wank?”

Nathan is fairly sure he knows the answer to that question, but half the fun is hearing him say it.

“...Yes.”

“Yes, but..?”

“It doesn't stop.” Nathan looks at him expectantly and Simon stumbles to form the words he needs. They aren't his words: he isn't Nathan who can so luxuriously describe the sex he isn't having, he isn't used to having to pronouce them out loud. “When I... come. Normally you -” There are a series of expansive and ambiguous had gestures and furtive, wide eyed glances which nonetheless manage to form a coherent picture. “And then... But...” He waves a hand in the direction of his cock and shrugs helplessly.

“...Oh. I got ya. Hey! Maybe it's your new super power! The everlasting boner! That'd be amazing, or maybe really unfortunate, but you're not allowed to hang around parks and stuff anyway, are you.” Simon looks quite wounded enough. Maybe the sex offender jokes are old hat now anyway, and Nathan is suddenly touched with uncharacteristic sympathy, which totally ruins the fact this moment would otherwise have been his punchline. “Or you know. It might be this.” Nathan takes the Powerade from the bench next to Simon, takes a swig to illsutrate and winces. “Ohh Jesus. I can taste it. Perhaps the double dose was a bit much.”

“What did you put in it?”

It's a kick in the guts, how resigned and unsurprised he sounds.

“Viagra.” Nathan screws his face up and sucks his teeth, looking to the ceiling. “Well, it's sketchy, I doubt it's a brand name but it was blue and that's happened,” he gestures vaguely at most of Simon's body, but managing to centre around Simon's erection, as everything in the room or perhaps the known universe seems to at that exact moment, “so I think it's a pretty safe bet.”

Simon looks more wretched than Nathan thinks he ever has.

“Why have you done this to me?”

Nathan, despite appearances to the contrary, has never actually kicked a puppy, and he realises why nobody makes a habit of it when the look Simon's giving him winds his way around something inside him and squeezes. He's seen Simon look pretty distraught about a lot of things he just thought were hilarious, but at that moment... he actually doesn't know. Why did he think this was funny? What if he'd been allergic to it or had a heart condition or something? He's had his fun out of teasing the boy, and sure it was fun to see him all flustered and wound up – okay, that had been fun in a whole way he wasn't expecting too - but he should have known it would go too far... somehow it always does. He settles down on the bench.

“Because … oh, because I'm a prick. You know that. I just thought it would be funny to watch you -” his mouth dries up before he can finish that thought, for some reason. It might relate to the unbidden memory of the moment when Simon had pressed that monster hard-on of his against a box, too gone in the simple pleasure of it to worry about who saw the look on his face. “I was just messing. I didn't want to upset you. Don't ya think I'd have told the others if I did?”

If nothing else, Simon's face relaxes slightly as the simple truth of that dawns on him. There had been no laughing, no pointing. Evidently Nathan had known exactly what was going on the entire time and hadn't cracked one single joke in front of anyone, and Simon can suspect him of a huge number of things but there was just no chance in hell he'd have missed that opportunity by accident. Simon sniffs.

“It hurts. I feel all... weird. Feel my pulse!”

Nathan doesn't pick up on the 'weird'. He does touch his fingertips to Simon's neck where he gestures, but just feels the warmth of his skin, slippery with sweat: the heartbeat underneath is, thankfully, steady. He makes use of the unusual invitation into Simon's personal space to drape an arm softly around his shoulders.

“Relax, Barry. You're not gonna die or anything.” He's confident in this because he checked the dosage – belatedly - and if you've really got problems you can take the double dose. It's just probably way out the other side of overkill when you're nineteen and healthy and drastically underfucked. “You're gonna be a bundle of spunk for like, a few more hours and then you're gonna sleep like the dead and in the morning you're gonna have some pulled muscles. But you'll be fine.”

Simon does not look convinced.

Nathan sighs, wriggles the tablet strip from his pocket to prove he's telling the truth and presses one blue diamond shape through the foil, holding it out for Simon to inspect and verify before impulsively - inexplicably – chucking it into his mouth and washing it down with a gulp of the spiked Powerade before logic has the chance to catch up with him. He opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out to show that he has in fact swallowed it.

“There. Now we're _both_ fucked.”

Simon's eyes cannot physically widen any further, but somehow his consistant expression of bewildered incredulity manages to intensify and if anything, after a couple of seconds for reality to dawn, Nathan mirrors him. He has no idea what he thinks he's doing, no follow up planned, no punch line or trick up his sleeve and no way to back out of what he's just done. But the way Simon raises an eyebrow at him and smiles, like a kid caught skiving by someone else from the same class, is plenty funny enough in itself. And he's right, isn't he. Because Nathan can't make jokes about this without incriminating himself, and now he's at almost the same disadvantage.

This is exactly what Simon's never had; this ridiculous boyish sense of totally inappropriate cameraderie, and as much as Nathan ever really 'decides' anything, he decides at that moment that at the very least he owes Simon solidarity, and some reassurance that in fact the entire world is not one giant wind up. He also realises, and the realisation possibly conincides with the moment his own blood vessels start dilating and his pants become uncomfortably snug, that there is one very obvious solution to their – now mutual - problem. It's foolproof. It's genius, it's bloody mental and there is absolutely no way he's passing it up.

“Huh.” He makes a 'well how about that' type gesture at the bulge steadily forming at the front of his coveralls. “Seems to me we have ourselves a pretty typical mess. What do you say then, weird kid? Wanna stay for a sleepover and some casual fondling?”

Simon looks at him like he's just suggested they.. . Nathan can't even think of a reasonable parallell that would account for how appalled he looks: when you've got one person capable of doing absolutely anything without being caught and one who can't die no matter what the outcome may be, your options for what constitutes outrageous are pretty limited. However it is patently obvious that the idea of any sort of casual exchange of sexual favours is outside the realms of Simon's contemplation right now, despite the fact he's sporting an erection that could knock someone out if he moves too quickly, and it might be just the viagra talking – it's almost definitely just the viagra taking – but Nathan kind of wants the unconscious recipient of Simon's unexpectedly beautiful cock to be him right now. Like, he doesn't often go for blokes unless he's really mashed or desperate (or probably both) but he knows a gorgeous specimen when he sees one, and if he weren't already intrigued by the pretty blue eyes and the kinky weirdness, then the body might have sealed the deal and if you are going to indulge in the cock once in a while it'd be a shame to pass one like that up.

Plus: 'desperate' is approaching like a TWOCked Vauxhall Corsa, and mashed can be arranged.

“Seriously. In case you haven't noticed, I've stitched myself up – royally, at that – to make you feel better, and I'm not inundated with options right now. And you've got t _hat_ , and unless you've got some sort of advert out on the internet with a picture of it but not the rest of you … have you tried that? I would, in your position ... I'm not imagining there's a queue round the community centre waiting to help you out.” The look on Simon's face softens whilst he calculates the bits of that statement that have to be honest versus how much could be mocking him, and Nathan dives in. “Come on, man, I'm dying here already and _my_ cock isn't a fifth of my bodyweight. I made this happen, so I'll fix it, I swear. Don't I always?”

Alright, so some questions are just best left unanswered. But Simon's gaze shifts sideways for just a second before his jaw clenches. Like he's thinking about it.

“You'll laugh at me.”  He actually _is_ thinking about it.

“I won't! Well. Do you acually have to wrap women's underwear around your face to get off? Because I might.”

“No.” Simon wrings his hands and frowns again. “You'll pretend, and you'll trick me, and then you'll tell everyone that you got me to do it and they'll all laugh at me, and you'll-”

Nathan, as usual, has stopped listening after a key bit of information.

“... No you won't do it, or no you don't have to - ?”

Simon's wide blue exasperation tells him that this is really not the time to be taking the piss, even if he's more than slightly inclined to believe that there are various definitions of that expression that would actually help him get Simon in the sack right now. _Right now,_ answers his erection, and fucking hell if that's what one pill does no wonder the kid's a mess after two. And a bit, because that first one crumbled up on its way out of the packet so it didn't really count...

“Look. You can go home, the best case scenario is you wank yourself into RSI and cry yourself to sleep, or the worst is you get arrested on the way back and put on a register...” Now is not the time to make the jokes about _again_ or n _o the OTHER register,_ not when he's got a proposal to make that even Nathan can scarcely believe is going to come out of his mouth. “Or are you going to stay here, with me, have a beer or twelve and see if we can't give each other a hand?” The gesture that accompanies the end of the sentence leaves no ambiguitiy as to whether the pun might have been accidental.

“You're joking.”

“Does this,” Nathan raises one eyebrow and one hand and calmly points at his now clearly erect dick, “look like I'm joking?”

As much as Simon is conditioned to believe that almost everything is a joke at his expense, he has to concede that it does not.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a lot longer than I expected (pfft that's what Nathan said) so I've split it here just for the eye break. 'Next' button takes you to all the porn.


	2. Chapter 2

On the crow's nest-like mezanine floor Nathan has colonised into a bedroom, there is not a lot to be done in the way of romance or scene setting, but he throws a can of Red Stripe to Simon and skulls one himself before opening another.

He sees Simon sipping distractedly and wonders if the has really grasped this situation at all.

“I'm not sure being sober is a sensible precaution right now, man. I mean, pretty as you are and all, with those pouty lips and those killer's eyes, I fully intend to just be able to picture something else and forget this ever happened.” It may be that neither of those are true, but then Nathan's not eaten all day and that beer's gone in on an empty stomach. “And as much as I know you want to make the most of your unadultered access to this wonderland...”- a half-arsed, at best, gesture to his body because his mind is very distinctly elsewhere, like preoccupied with having offered to deal with the fact that Simon's pants currently look like half the Dartford fucking Bridge- “...I don't think you need to worry about brewer's droop. So drink up.”

Nathan generously gives him time to drain a can and make a subtantial dent in another... literally, with the anxious flex of his fingers as Simon visiby tries to deep-breathe through his own awkwardness and the way Nathan is fussing about, plumping pillows and out of nowhere, producing a bottle of baby oil.

Actual, honest-to-goodness, name-brand baby oil. This, from a man who will randomly raid vending machines because feeding himself is an incidental desire – he can't actually starve – but if he's going to stoop to shoplifting for anything then it might as well be worth it. And when you're living on your own in what's effectively a warehouse with no social life or entertainment, other that the loveable reprobates you're legally obliged to spend your days with and a string of hapless, rage-virused, recently deceased or just entirely disinterested probation workers charged with filling your day with structured activity that consists of various forms of scrubbing, your own company becomes something of a luxury. Nathan is not a cheap date thank you very much.

“Right then!” Nathan is bright and cheerful. Three beers and a boner cheerful. And Simon, whilst aghast, is not literally making a run for it so progress has evidently been made on the chilling out front. “Who's going first?”

Simon hesitates, and it's fatal. It gives Nathan just enough time to come up with a stupid? Brilliant? Maybe enitrely accurate? - idea and pass it off like he's been planning it the whole time.

“Okay. You do me. The longer we give you to get wound up, the better chance you've got of blowing the load of your life and it all being over. I think. Is that how this works?”

An exhausted, helpless expression that says 'how the fuck should I know' without a word, and... well, that's fair, Simon has very little experience relevant to any of the things that are happening to him right now. Nathan does take a moment to acknowledge that he's not putting up anywhere near the protest he imagined at this point, but the answer to that is written on Simon's flushed, effort-slack face: there is a man surrendered fully to the boner of doom, and it's clearly been a good few hours since Simon last cared about anything sensible, let alone the capacity for Nathan to wind him up, so it's admirable that he manages that much decorum. Admirable and fucking stupid, because Nathan has no compunction whatsoever about getting his cock out. He's never been the most descerning of lovers, and his chemically induced erection doesn't give the vaguest hint of a fuck who it's pointed at. Although he'd not admit it, it's been a while since he's even got a hand job off anyone other than himself and Simon's vulnerable, turned-on weirdness has not proved unappealing in the slightest.

Nathan expects to need to coerce. To do a bit of sweetening, all the reassurance and coaxing, and is still deciding between the _I really think there might be something between us_ and the _just a coulple of mates, noone will ever find out_ tack when he realises Simon is not actually moving away from him. He's actually picked up the bottle of oil, bless his mental little heart, and is inspecting it carefully, like it's going to have instructions on how to cope with this situation somehwere printed on the label, so Nathan just gets himself naked and comfortable, as unintrusively as possible, so as not to spook him. It works, and he finds himself sitting comfortably on his flat mattress, with a fresh can of beer in his right hand and the hard-on to end all things jutting, throbbing, from his lap.

Simon, to his left, looks momentarily as intensely, painfully awkward as humanly possible before visibly coming to some sort of resolved epiphany, squeezing oil into his hand and reaching across their laps to wrap his hand round Nathan's cock.

_Oh._

Nathan's knocked for six when even those first few strokes feel perfect, like he expected Simon to hesitate or not to have any idea what he was doing but then he realises quite how stupid that is. Of course he's well practiced; of course he's spent the vast majority of his life shut up in his room wanking over god knows what, because look at him.

His stroke is steady, rhythmic, easily the most confident and decisive motion Nathan has ever seen him make. The baby oil is warm in Simon's feverish hand; his grip is neither too harsh nor too gentle, firm but surprising, and Nathan really needs not to look at the smooth flex of the muscle in Simon's wrist and forearm as he jerks him off if he wants to make the most of it.

But if he doesn't, he might find himself looking at the strained concentration on Simon's face, the visible effort of overcoming his own very obvious needs to deal with Nathan's... Or at the stripe of hair where the undone zip of his jumpsuit leaves a tantalising gap between his undershirt and his boxers, the rigid line of Simon's shockingly perfect cock, the wet patch forming at the end, _oh fuck... not now, not yet, surely._

And he tries his absolute best not to look at the sharp curve of Simon's mouth at that moment but he can't help it: his eyes slip down and rest on those full lips just as Simon's tongue flits out to wet them and Nathan comes copiously over Simon's hand, so blissed out by the relief that he can't even be embarassed about it. Plus, and huh, now he sees what Simon's got his surprisingly normal panties in a twist about: although the immediate urge has lessened, his cock has made only a tentative attempt at softening before - like its host when faced with anything that requires more than a cursory effort - giving up and staying just the way it is.

He wonders at his proudly unrelenting stiffy; at his newfound slightly-less-magic power; at all the times this would have been so helpful in the past. At how spectacularly fucking helpful it isn't right now, unless...

Simon wipes his hand on Nathan's sleeping bag and squirms around inexplicably for a few seconds, unsure where to tuck his feet or put the rest of him before – oh! And _there_ are those balls he likes to demonstrate occasionally – grabbing Nathan by the wrist and guiding his hand in a purposeful direction. Nathan realises belatedly that the fact he hasn't seen Simon's balls - and hasn't still, tucked away as they are in the darkening confines of his pants – is remarkably unlikely when considering that if they're in proportion with the rest of his genitalia they're probably visible from close-range satelites. Still. In the interest of winding the little weirdo up... and perhaps, just maybe...giving him the best night of his young life, there are more urgent matters at hand.

“Nuh-uh. Nope, not yet.”

Simon looks crestfallen. It's at least the most heartwrenching expression Nathan's seen him pull in about two hours, which is awful, and it's nearly enough to make him cave and just wank the kid senseless and fall asleep, but he's suddenly got a vague inkling that all that stuff he came out with about making him wait for it might _not_ actually be bollocks. “We need to let you get as wound up as you physically can, and I reckon I can crack at least one more out before then.”

Simon raises an eyebrow at him. Against the kinetic agitation of his need, it's a harsh and judgemental full stop but Nathan styles it out without shame.

“I know. It's a talent.”

Perhaps he _should_ be worried that after an orgasm like that his erection is still not waning in the slightest, but he's a red blooded young man, with a young man's appetites and 25mg of bootleg sildenafil rattling around his system. He isn't about to be too hard on himself, and it's such a shame that pun would be wasted on Simon right now.

But somehow he's not the Simon he was this morning, with the first day in a new school shyness and not a hair out of place: he's just a b-... a man, with a fit body and a pretty face and a real prize-winning stiffy that, one way or another, has Nathan's name on it. And it'll wait whilst he gets his. Again.

“Can I fuck your mouth?”

...Nathan hears the words before he's aware of having thought them, let alone said them, but once they're out he has no desire to take them back as they are very obviously the answer to absolutely all his problems right now.

Simon's “No!” is so shocked and sharp Nathan almost feels like the thought hasn't even occurred to him, which is ridiculous, because who the hell sustains an erection that looks capable of knocking through drywall for the best part of a whole day without spending at least three quarters of that time wondering whose face they can stick it in? Had he really not thought this was on the cards? Or... Oh. He thinks that Nathan means a one way kind of arrangement. Like his willingness is being taken advantage of, and Nathan may be a lot of things and alright, maybe he's not got a spotless record when it comes to failing to reciprocate oral but he's not one to scupper a good thing when he's accidentally uncovered it.

Yes. The look Simon is giving him is patently that he may be naïve, gullible, desperate, and to date have fallen for the vast majority of Nathan's wind ups but he was not born fucking yesterday. And desperation has stripped all his shyness away, and he's having none of it.

Nathan spontaneously holds both Simon's hands, demanding eye contact.

“Simon.” Not 'Barry', because This Is Serious. It's possibly the most sincere Nathan's ever been about anything in his sorry little life, if the insistent pulse in his cock is anything to go by. “I'm not fucking with you. I _am_ trying to let you get as wound up as you possibly can so I can give you the time of your life, once and with minimal effort, and we can call it a night. I'm not going to leave you hanging. I'm a gentleman.”

He doesn't bother registering the look Simon's giving him... he'd have given it to himself if he could. Nathan just raises his eyebrows and optimistially grips the base of his cock.

Simon looks like he wants to run, he really does, but there is no way in hell his knees will hold him up if he tries. He's wired and sweaty and looks near delirious.

And then there's that glimmer. That hint of something unfamiliar that Nathan guiltily realises might be what hope looks like on Simon, and if he can get to that, and nurture it, then he might just get a blowjob. And to unpick a few of the splinters from Simon's confidence, maybe, but that's substantially lower placed in priorities than the insistent and all consuming need that is rippling through him from his dick.

“You do me, and then I'll do you. I promise.”

Simon's groan is pure exasperated frustration rather than arousal, but he shifts himself downwards, half kneeling in Nathan's sleeping bag.

Simon looks, dark-eyed and shark like, at Nathan's cock for one incredibly worrying moment, but then he opens his mouth and gently touches his tongue to Nathan's burning skin, and it doesn't matter.

This he takes to less naturally, but Nathan's not sure he could cope with the shock of finding Simon gave world-ending head on top of the rest of the day's surprises. It would be a shame to die of a heart attack right now because Simon would almost definitely stop. It's enough that he doesn't suddenly balk or pull away and for Nathan, having hot, wet mouth around his dick is more than enough to make him a very happy man.

At first it's mostly licking, which Nathan encourages with the least aggressive noises he can muster under the circumstances, and then Simon takes the head in his mouth and actually sucks – nicely, not comedically like someone who's misinterpreted the entire concept of cock sucking, or even worse taken 'blowjob' literally, so he's doing well for a beginner. He starts moving a little, seemingly encouraged by his own progress, and even looks like he might be starting to enjoy himself.

Alright, Nathan can sympathise. There is something strangely intoxicating about it all when you're already horny and there's no doubt that Simon must be gagging for it by now, although he's managing not to actually gag as he works up to something resembling enthusiasm, perhaps out of sheer desperation because he knows the sooner Nathan comes – not that he's in any danger of that being too long a wait, let's face it – the sooner he gets his, and Simon _needs_ it.

With his hair slicked away from his face and his mouth stuffed full of Nathan's cock, Simon is just gently rutting his hips against the bunched up sleeping bag on the end of the mattress and somehow it's the most beautiful thing in a long string of surprisingly beautiful things Nathan has seen since he made the highly questionable decision to put those little blue pills in Simon's drink.

“You hanging in there, champ?”

Simon groans in response and that's gorgeous too. The vibration carries right through his mouth and along Nathan's overstimulated cock, and with it a trickle of saliva makes its way down over Nathan's balls and suddenly Nathan is very, very aware of what is happening. That Simon is sucking him off. That it's going to be him, as soon as this is over, with a mouthful of rock hard dick; with Simon's hands in his hair and his stocky, well formed thighs either side of Nathan's face; it will be him getting his face fucked...

He comes without warning, knocking his head back against the rail and if it's like anything, the orgasm the wet heat of Simon's mouth drags out of him feels like being struck by lightning. Only, he's fairly confident he doesn't die this time, because he recovers in time to see how panicked and affronted Simon looks by his unnanounced mouthful of spunk.

“Oh man, either spit it out or swallow it, you look like you're at the world's shittest wine tasting and it's not going to get any better with age, believe me.”

It could be boner induced rage, but Nathan is pretty sure Simon hates him at that moment, if the glare he narrows at him as his Adam's apple flexes laboriously up and down his throat is anything to go by. That would be a scary prospect to someone in posession of all the facts that still had any blood supply that could be bothered attending their brain... and who was capable of being brutally and unexpectedly murdered...  and _staying_ dead. But it's not for long. Because for the first time in history, Nathan's mouth might just be about to get him out of trouble.

Simon starts to wriggle his arms and legs free of the jump suit whilst Nathan unzips it the rest of the way, which is more awkward than he expects, like trying to peel a horny and overstimulated day-glo orange banana. Fortunately Simon takes his own undershirt off, saving half the effort, and what's underneath shuts Nathan up firmly for a good three, maybe four seconds.

He'd expected pasty weediness, and he gets.. alright, Simon is the colour of whitewash, true, but where he'd assumed the kid was all skin and bones are hard planes of muscle. His stomach is taught and toned, the trail of dark hair leading unsubtly towards his cock framed by two pronounced cords in a wide V. And that cock... it's a marvel, really: as straight and tidy as the rest of him, thick and proud, shining at the tip, its vivid flush and the red of his cheeks the only colour against the unblemished, shining palour of his skin _. He's gorgeous_ , even if the way he's leaning back on his elbows, almost straining to get away from his trecherous hard on, horrified, does make him look a bit like John Hurt squirming around on the table in that scene in Alien.

“Weird kid!” He breathes the words. “You've been holding out on us.”

Nathan gets an honest grin for that, which quickly flashes back into a more typical expression of nervous selfconsciousness.

“I... go running,” Simon states simply, as though that's supposed to explain anything; like going for a fucking jog through a council estate is going to miraculously turn you into top billing for a gay porn remake of American Psycho.

And on the subject of gay porn, Nathan has a job to do. And yeah, he's gonna make a good show of it, why not. He's not a fan of half measures, on the whole.

He squeezes a completely random amount of baby oil into his hand, briefly shakes it off and takes up a weird but practiced splayed grip, his wrist bent back on itself, that means his forefingerand thumb can hold around the base of Simon's cock whilst the others stroke down and tuck under his balls, but holy fuck, that isn't going to work because the tips of even his middle finger and thumb won't actually meet together

“Wow. Just wow.”

“Nathan...”

“No, I can usually...” He grips Simon's cock in a loose fist to demonstrate how he'd be holding it with a couple of fingers to put his mouth to the end, but Simon falls backwards and groans just at the feeling his hand and oh right, yeah, he's that desperate.

Nathan swallows him down the best he can manage, and chokes a little because he might have overestimated his ability slightly. Still, he's nothing if not enthusiastic, immediately going to see how far he actually can get it down his throat without ending up Fridays' Sun headline - “Teen dies in Public Services Deepthroat Horror”, or perhaps “Sentenced to Death by Blowjob: Choked on Cock on Taxpayer's Time”.

Right, he'll be alive again in a few hours. Still, he can't imagine it'll be a whole lot of fun for Simon if he dies on him mid-nosh. Then again, knowing Simon as barely as he does, he seems like he'd be more into it than some.

He feels like he knows him better, somehow, with the head of his cock pulsing and leaking insistently in his mouth and Nathan's not even grossed out by that. He's accepted that Simon is hot when he's desperate, and the taste of him – salt and good clean sweat, for fuck's sake, the man's too neat for his balls to even smell like balls – is just adding to his own sense of hedonistic abandonment as he bobs his head and runs his tongue along it and is generally having a whale of a time. Surely this is what Thursday nights were made for.

“You actually taste good. I mean, I'm no fucking coinoisseur but I could do this all day.”

Simon whines and Nathan sucks him to punctuate his point.

“You're fucking beautiful, man. And this thing's a fucking work of art. Has anyone told you you should be in porn? I'm sure they'd teach you how to... you know. Though you're doing a grand job for a newbie.”

“Nathan. Please...” It's gratifying somehow, to hear him unhinged like that. “Please stop talking.”

That's fair, at least, and the task at hand is more than worthy of Nathan's mouth's undivided attention but poor Simon's marvelous body is so overwraught that Nathan wonders if he will survive long enough to come without having a coronary or combusting or who knows what else people are capable of doing under stress these days, and really it's been hours and as much fun as Nathan's sure the additional rubs of his tongue make the motions of his mouth, it is quite definitely time to pull out the big guns.

Simon doesn't look fit to stand for a lot of working up in his state, and given the opportunity to think twice he would probably refuse this so Nathan makes it one smooth, uninterrupted motion: he slides his slick finder underneath Simon's balls, trails the short distance to his hole and pushes his finger in, crooking it as soon as it's past the tightest ring of muscle so Simon gets the jolt of pleasure that makes his eyes fly open before he has time to wonder what's being done to him. And by then it's too late, Simon's entire body goes rigid and he's stuck between the hot, wet and constant pressure of Nathan's mouth and the flex of his finger. Simon puts one hand in Nathan's hair to hold him, because obviously there is no way he's giving him the chance to tease him this time, and shifts his hips just as gently as he can manage.

Under other circumstances, the noises Simon's making would be hilarious but Nathan can feel the tension in his body winding to a peak, can taste how close he is to breaking point and the sense of achie vement turns him on somehow. Simon twists underneath him, panting out something that could be a warning or a name or a prayer.

Nathan doesn't let up, going as far down as he can on Simon's cock, using his hand to hold the base and still coming up about an inch short. He takes too much and chokes a little, maybe on purpose because he knows how that looks, saliva and precome dribbling onto his chin. He sees the way Simon's looking at him, like he's about to lose all that control and good, because he wants to see him unravel and make him come just like this and for fuck's sake, the fact he is still horny now can _not_ be normal, but he wants to taste it.

_'Cumslut'_ rises unbidden in his internal monologue, the image of this newly undone, grown-up Simon grabbing him by the hair and fucking his throat in desperation is just so wanton, and when he looks up, those huge blue eyes are staring down at him with something like hunger and he moans involuntarily around Simon's cock. That just about does it.

Nathan's given blowjobs, the taste of come isn't a shock to him but even so, the quanity and the force he sucks from Simon takes him by surprise and Nathan nearly chokes before he can swallow because at the peak of orgasm _Simon fucking disappears._

For an instant Nathan's mouth is around solid, hot nothing then it's flooded with warm saltiness then Simon's there again, undone and gasping and beautiful, staring with unfocussed eyes at how Nathan's struggling against his reflexes, trying not to cough. 

He does manage to swallow before he splutters. “You could have told me you were going to do that!”  
  
It takes Simon a second or two of blinking to form words, and then he turns pink and shrinks in on himself, wilting under the criticism.

“M'sorry,” he twists away. “It was... I... your finger, I didn't-”

“No, no no. I expected you to blow your load.” In a long second of examining the conflict on his face, Nathan realises Simon has no idea what else happened. “You turn fucking invisible. When you come.”

“I don't!”

Why does he even sound defensive about it?

“Well either that or I just got face fucked by Casper, the Over-Friendly Ghost. Yeah you do.” Impossibly, Simon's cheeks pinken again at the words or perhaps the concept of face fucking and Nathan cannot honestly believe he has it in him to be shy about absolutely anything at this second in time. “Seriously, how did you not know? Have you not even wanked yourself off in front of a mirror since it happened?”

Simon's face says he has literally never even considered it and Nathan can't honestly imagine why he wouldn't have. He would - more often - if he looked like that, with all the muscle and those pretty eyes and that neat, sexy trail of dark hair down that hard belly to that ridiculous porn star cock...

Nathan's suprpised Simon's even still conscious – he's not sure he would be after an orgasm like that – but his voice is so typically matter of fact. “You're hard again.”

“Oh for fuck's sake.”

 

**

 

After another round, they're done. Probably. Hopefully, because Simon laying up against his back, thrusting desperately into the press between Nathan's thighs, his cock slipping once or twice up to rub over Nathan's hole as Nathan humped against his hand and the matress had been just a little close for comfort. Fucking wonderful, at the time, but quite distinctly the most disgusting thing Nathan had ever had to deal with in his life once they'd both come and the thrill wore off. Alright maybe not THE most disgusting, but the sensation of Simon's spunk cooling in his arse crack and his own soaking into the mattress around him is definitely in the top five... six grimmest things he can remember experiencing.

Nathan's not usually one to bother with cleaning up straight after sex, but he's also not usually one for being practically marinated in someone else's jizz either, so he doesn't feel like getting up, picking a t shirt up from the pile and wiping the worst off is too much effort. Particularly when he realises the shirt in his hand is actually Simon's.

Once he finds his trousers, and thereby the pockets, he rolls himself a joint – taking three attempts to summon enough spit to lick the paper because his mouth's so dry, but when he lights it the effort's well rewarded. He tips his head back, puffs the smoke out through his nose and, thoughtfully, holds the joint out to Simon, who shakes his head minutely.  
  
“I don't do drugs.”

“Oh right, yeah. But you pop a stiffy for nine hours and suck off your mates on a regular basis, is that what you're telling me now? You're full of surprises, aintcha? Jesus. It'll help, I promise.”

It flits through Nathan's mind to be proud of the fact that Simon now accepts that promise with only the barest hint of his former trepidation, extends his hand and takes the roll up. Nathan thinks about teasing him about it but decides to give him a few minutes first – he's learning, honestly – and then, taking it back for a smoke himself, eventually settles on:

“You do know we're laughing with you, not at you?”

Simon looks confused, and it's not obvious if that's by the sudden sincerity or by the concept itself.

“But I'm not laughing.” He accepts the joint on the second pass without question and Nathan wonders if he's actually broken him.

“That's because you don't have a sense of humour, because you're a psychopath. That's one of the key traits, I read about it.” He jumps in before Simon can react to that, “And that's okay! You're our psychopath, and we love you.”

Nathan skirts past the look Simon's giving him, not wanting to get drawn into trying to explain how hiding sincerity under ribbing and sarcasm works for people like him, now that he knows what it does to people who aren't like him. He has his own ways of building Simon back up, and the gentle reinforcement of their acceptance is small fry compared to what he sees as a far more significant vouch for his approval: “Anyway. The next time anyone takes the piss out of you, just remember you have almost definitely got a bigger cock than them. And if they ask, just get it out. Shut me up, didn't it?”

Nathan's not sure if it's the sex, the tiredness, the weed, the relief or the way Simon doesn't hesitate now to accept that as truth, but Simon's laugh is soft and easy and it's a sound Nathan's more than happy to keep coaxing out of him with absurd stories and silly one liners until they end up finishing all he's got left to smoke and fall asleep, awkwardly half-jumbled on a sticky mattress not fit for one, let alone two.

 

***

Simon wakes up with a headache, feeling like he imagines Nathan feels after he's died and then un-died again, to a still-damp sleeping bag, a burning ache in his right forearm and _the smell_. Sweat and seawater and desperation. Cheap beer and pot smoke and, inexplicably, synthetic pickled onion, because Nathan is stuffing his face with Transformers crisps at what must be before eight in the fucking morning.

“What? Are you telling me you're not fucking starving after that performance?”

Simon... is, actually, but he feels vaguely nauseous at the thought, or perhaps it's motion sickness from the speed at which he has to account for the previous day's events. He just ends up staring blankly. His mouth is dry: he's probably dehydrated, and he doesn't need the phrase involving the word 'fluids' that is too loud in his head because he gets the message quite plainly, thank you.

He didn't dream those things, hasn't woken to a realisation of his worst nightmare in which he is for some reason compelled to share a bed with someone and embarasses himself in his sleep... He really did those things. And Nathan... Nathan fucking spiked his drink, and then touched him and made him come and told him he was beautiful – not a word Simon had ever imagined anyone using about him, much less Nathan, certainly not in earnest – and given the things he said about his cock, Simon doesn't feel like he has any right to be nearly as shy about his nudity as he ordinarily would.

It occurs to Simon what wonders his community sentence is doing for his social integration, and that this probably wasn't quite what the court had in mind. It also occurs to him, with the best progress in the world, how long it might take for the bulk of his sexual experience not to be accounted for by this little chemically-fuelled episode: a thought which becomes more and more disconcerting as he tries to wet his dry mouth with flat beer and watches Nathan frowning dazedly into his fourth packet of crisps like he can't quite work out how he's arrived at this point in his life and of all things, _this_ is what's confused him?

“Right. We've got about an hour to sort ourselves out before the others come along...”

You've got to hand it to them, for a community payback group, their attendance is fucking flawless. And all it took was a supernatural storm, a couple of murders and the associated cover ups and.... fuck it, still, the thing that's hardest to believe about any of it is five people with records like theirs actually turning up.

“I won't tell them about the remote cameras you've got set up in the toilets if you don't tell them about...” Nathan flails, managing to gesture at himself, at Simon, at the fact they're bollock naked in the damp and tangled remains of his bed, “... any of this.”

“But I didn't- “

“Ah ah ah. I believe you. Not sure anyone else will.”  
  
“Kelly will. Kelly's going to know it all anyway. She can hear.”

Shit. Cracking jokes around Kelly is like watching a comedy with the subtitles on: the punchline always coming up a split second before the delivery and ruining it. And lying in her presence is utterly impossibe to get away with, however talented you may be.

“Ah.”

Nathan has a think about it for a moment, and comes up with one of his usual fallbacks, and in his newly confident and worldly – and possibly slightly hungover – state, Simon might actually pull it off. He wriggles his clothes back on and if anything they look more rumpled on him than they did in their pile on the floor.

“There's only one thing for it then. It's called 'hiding in plain sight'. Watch and learn, my perverted little friend, watch and learn.”

Nathan gives Simon's thigh a distressingly intimate little rub and bounds off down the stairs. Simon, as always, can only follow. He pulls himself back into his jumpsuit, going without the undershirt because when he picks it up it's solid and _oh my fucking god._

And so, when Nathan flings the double doors open to the assembled group at as close to nine o'clock as anyone is interested in and is asked what's up, his answer is something like:

“Eh you know how it is. I got some snide viagra and managed to give myself a hard on that went on or like, twelve hours. Seriously, I was unstoppable, it was like a spunk-Supersoaker. ” The actions that accompany the tale are vivid and unneccessary. He waggles his eyebrows, challenges anyone to call him out before the story gets more outrageous, “So I plied Barry here with booze and drugs and we sucked and fucked like love's young wet dream into the small hours and a grand time was had by all, thank you very much. Now, are we going to stand around discussing my knob, or are we going to make some indirect reparations to the community for our criminal behaviour?”

Kelly rolls her eyes so hard it actually hurts. It's bollocks, obviously, but fucked if she can make out the truth under the white noise of him thinking about the story he's spinning them, or Nathan's exact words in Simon's head, echoed back in his own voice with a tone of disbelief.

And then, weirdest of all, Simon's confused little internal voice with an emphasis she just can't work out.

“ _I didn't **actually** fuck him._ ”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, if there's anyone still out there! Feedback is my reacharound, there's a darling...


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